


De Coda

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M, Pining, Stupidly floral pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2019-09-07
Packaged: 2020-10-11 21:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20553323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley can't possibly tell him.He can't.He doesn't.





	De Coda

He doesn’t remember much of Before. Crowley isn’t sure if it’s self-inflicted, imposed, or accidental. Perhaps a combination of all three. It’s flashes of things that he almost remembers, and isn’t sure if his mind is filling in the gaps, or if things he’s heard and seen over the years have seeped in as false memories. Some are clearer than others, and some are… more pleasant than others.

One thing he knows for sure, though, is that the first thing he heard was a song.

Not a ‘song’ in the Human sense, not entirely. No pounding baseline and defined sections. No set pitches and parts. No organised and defined genres, including and excluding. Humans had categorised and planned and explored and exploded, taken the concept and spiralled off into riots in the pews over scandalously divergent styles, and Mods and Rockers and Punks and political and ethnic and class differences. They’d owned and disowned. And Crowley had always been fascinated by that, by how very - well - them - it all was.

But the angelic version had been much different. Like talking, but the song had all been uniform. Hosannah in the highest. Glory to G--, and all that. That was the first thing. Then it was made wider with each thing that existed, until the spheres in their orbits rang with the rhythm of their movements. Each new orb of fire filling the air, and back then you could hear it all. The more that got added, the harder it was to distinguish, though. From the Bang of it all, ringing through the first gasp of existence, into the smaller sounds of atomic patterns following the ones in the skies.

Then it all got too much, and the scope of it became impossible to listen to. Not and hear everything. Not and not go mad.

But. Music.

Song. Symphony. Rhapsody, and not of a Bohemian nature. 

He can hear it when he looks out at the skies, or he can imagine, or remember. The smooth running, before there was any option to hit the wrong note. When there were only a few. Hear it in the colours that the glowing Earth is drowning out. So slow, so slow compared to time, now. The echo of dying nebulae, the cymbal-crash of two galaxies screaming into one. Once it had been the heartbeat, before the limits of lives made it drag into this. 

He tries not to look up like this too often. The disconnect is too much. 

There’s only one other place he can hear it, and it’s around him. The angel. The blasted, damned, stupid, annoying, frustrating angel. Who likely isn’t even aware that he’s singing, singing in a tongue older than tongues. 

Aziraphale walks through the world oblivious, or unconscious, like a sleep-walker, half the time. He has no idea of the notes he rings through the ether as his teaspoon hits the brim of his cup, then waltzes to a halt with the droplet of liquid finding balance at last. The way his fingers pluck at the harpstrings of the universe as he licks to turn a page. The percussion of his frown, or the flourish of his sleeves. 

He can’t know. He can’t know how he makes something old and rusted long to sing, too. The voice in his chest is rough from inhaled smoke, and he no longer rings true when struck. Any song he could sing in praise of his angel… it would add more discord to the universe. Any attempt to capture him in notes and words… 

But _oh_ does he want to. Does he want to. A mingled need to simply resonate back, and to form new songs to praise him, to adulate, to - to - he needs to! It’s - it’s - like the words are choking up the back of his throat. Like the thoughts are whirling so loudly that he is lost in the storm of them. Like he’s betraying his angel by being unable to echo back what he hears from him.

It isn’t just his form. Actually, though he’s very fond of that… it’s never been about it. Not really. It is him, and it isn’t. That body doesn’t exist without him, but it’s - it’s - he’s more. And without him in it, it would just be shapes. Shapes and atoms and nothing to stir the song. Nothing beyond.

But with him in it… the way he huffs when he’s annoyed makes his chest hurt. Partly because he hates to see him annoyed, and partly because he wants to see it. But to be the only cause. With him in it, he sees the creases in his skin when he’s forgotten to move, and the world has pressed into his softness and left its mark. He wants to chide him to come back to himself, but the look on his face when he’s lost in his books is too precious to lose for a moment. 

With him in it, the slightest curl of his lips or tug at his eyes that hides a joy too large for words is so much - too much - that to ask for more would be indecent and dangerous. He feels flayed and destroyed as it is, and more - oh more - he would explode, implode, and then explode again. 

The body is just the instrument that the song plays through.

It’s just a way to make sense of the being inside. Something so good - and yet… and yet. It’s good, but it isn’t polished. 

That had been Heaven’s problem. Note after perfect note, but imperfect beings trying to sing. And it had broken, of course, because perfection was impossible. 

Crowley knows his angel is not perfect. He is stubborn, and has spite he tries to hide. He is selfish, and has things he wants to keep. He has fear, and he tries to hide from things that might hurt. 

These things, though, are normal. As far as he can tell. The other angels have enough of the same, and the demons are even louder in this key. But Aziraphale… he’s different.

Those sour notes echo, but don’t overwhelm. They strike the wrong chord, but the melody is still… right. He sees the way he hoards like he needs these things to exist, but he sees him share when the angel notices a real need that’s greater than his. He sees the stubbornness that makes him fight, but he sees it turned towards refusal to obey when he shouldn’t. He sees the fear, and he sees him push beyond it anyway. 

His angel - and he is his, he won’t let anyone else stake a claim (his own, jealous refrain) - loves. Loves, beyond everything else. In his broken, flawed way. Maybe because he’s so broken, he can appreciate the ways the angel is not. Or maybe it’s just that he feels him resonate in his chest like he was always meant to sing to him.

Crowley wants to. He wants to, so much. He wants to write poetry in every tongue he knows. He wants to drown him in nice words, and nicer acts. He wants to hold a mirror up in his glasses, so the angel can see himself as he really is. He wants. 

He wants.

He wants.

But his voice is broken, and his words no good. His instrument is faulty, and it would destroy him to play the wrong thing. His strings would snap, his heart would break, and he would never hear that laughter again. 

So he watches. And he listens. And he tastes the music as it washes over him. If he can’t join in the duet, he can be the grateful audience.

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely [icestorming](https://icestorming.tumblr.com/) asked for 'pining'.
> 
> Crowley is an emotionally broken idiot.


End file.
